


A Terror Of Their Own Ordinariness

by sian1359



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:01:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24851995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian1359/pseuds/sian1359
Summary: Clint Barton walks into a bar and meets Fen
Kudos: 17
Collections: A Ficathon Goes Into A Bar





	A Terror Of Their Own Ordinariness

**Author's Note:**

> Ever have one of the stories where you know right up front what the point is going to be, but then the characters fight you every step of the way. I think I got to the punch line I was looking for, only this didn't turn out to be funny, and it took 4,500 more words to get there.
> 
> I love the Into A Bar concept, and coming up with a reason to divergent characters might have an opportunity or need to meet. 
> 
> The story takes place somewhere after the first Avengers movie and before Winter Soldier for Clint, and partway through Season Three for Fen.
> 
> The title is taken from a quote by KatherineDunn - _I get glimpses of the horror of normalcy. Each of these innocents on the street is engulfed by a terror of their own ordinariness. They would do anything to be unique._

_"Your pardon, Agent Barton."_

Clint didn't swear or jump at the disembodied voice. Although he didn't spend a lot of time in the Tower, between still performing missions for SHIELD, and having his own apartment over in Bed-Stuy, he'd stayed here in Tony's monumental symbol to his ego often enough to have gotten used to – and to grow fond of – the artificial intelligence that not only ran all of the building's mechanical systems, but also operated as a personal aide to a select group of people that for some reason included Clint. Tony had been struck speechless when Clint had innocently suggested that he could develop a dumbed down version of Jarvis to compete against Siri and Alexa. While Clint had mostly been teeing Tony off, he still thought Stark Industries was missing the bet by not marketing its own virtual assistant. Jarvis beat even the Iron Man suit, as far as Clint was concerned, if he had to pick the best of Tony's inventions, which probably also meant that Tony was right and Clint would never be satisfied with a pale imitation.

"Jarvis, we've talked about this. My name is Clint."

_"I am so very sorry, sir. It was my understanding that you accepted and championed my autonomy. I will make a note that that isn't the – "_

"Touché, Jarvis. Yes, your initial understanding is correct. I do recognize your personhood. I am also wrong to ask you to conform to my preferences over your own. Please, feel free to maintain a formality between us, but know that I do not require such."

Yeah, Alexis and Siri might sound sassy now and again, but they gave only programmed responses, glib or not and the same ones everyone would get if they asked the right question. Jarvis, on the other hand, was clever himself, with a developed personality as real as anyone's and deserving of being treated like the living entity that he was. 

_"Oh, very good, sir. You have my undying thanks."_

Even if that entity turned out to be sarcastic bastard.

"So how may I help you on this beautiful day, Jarvis?"

_"There is a young lady down in the lobby that is asking for –"_

"I didn't do it."

_"Of course, sir. You my rest assured. She is neither pregnant, nor claiming any familiarity to you or, indeed, to any of the Avengers. She does, however, work in the neighborhood, so she is aware that members of the Avengers are often in residence, and as such, has come seeking assistance in dealing with a small matter at her place of employment. Mrs. Arboghast believes she is earnest and worthy of that assistance and it is my judgment that you would be the Avenger best suited to come to her aid. May I inform the ladies that you are on your way, or would you rather continue to stare at your computer screen in a pretense of doing SHIELD paperwork?"_

Clint supposed one of the reasons he liked Jarvis so much was because of how much he reminded him of Phil. There had been a time after Phil had died at Loki's hand that had Clint wondering if Phil's spirit had somehow managed to float away from the helicarrier and merge with Jarvis, just so he could come back and haunt Clint. Of course, given that Phil had gotten better, Clint's haunting theory no longer held up, but if nothing else, it lent support to Clint's belief that Jarvis was indeed an entity separate and evolved beyond Tony's code and creation. It also made Clint sad that he'd never gotten a chance to meet Tony's inspiration, the original Jarvis. Peggy Carter had thought the world of him too, by all accounts, and from the few times Clint had had the opportunity to meet and work with SHIELD's most famous founder, he knew that she did not give unwarranted praise or stand up for someone undeserving.

"Sure, Jarvis, let them know I'm on my way," Clint responded as he made sure to save what little progress he'd made on the AAR he needed to turn in covering his last mission before he closed the program.

SHIELD's command structure and analysts were never satisfied with 'I made the shot', or 'target was apprehended'. They also wanted to know things like the color of the target's suit, or whether the contact had ordered the beef or the chicken. Clint had been doing this long enough to understand that, sure, details were important. He was fine with owning up to it when he screwed up in the field. The sheer levels of minutia they required, however, wasn't anything he was every going to appreciate, nor were they something he spent much effort trying to retain. Frankly, he wouldn't be surprised when the order came down from on high that field agents and specialists would need to start wearing body cameras, and there was a part of him that was ready; it was just a matter of the sci-techs figuring out how to make them concealable so as not to blow an agent's cover. He'd already spotted the odd drone in the area during several missions now, and he really didn't think they were just flying high cover. But the drone's presence hadn't yet absolved him of writing down all of the information the paper-pushers could get on their own from the video footage, so it was likely the cameras, if it ever did come down to that, would just mean more fucking paperwork.

So would carrying a gun off property if he ended up using it, but Clint wasn't about to step into a meeting with a stranger unarmed, no matter how harmless Mrs. Arboghast or Jarvis judged this woman to be. He grabbed up a leather jacket that hung low enough to cover his belt holster, and headed out of the rooms Tony had set aside for his use when he wanted or needed to stay in Manhattan. 

"I don't suppose you want to give me a heads up as to what's going on?"

_"The young lady is concerned over a visitor to her establishment, but I think it best that she explain."_

"Okay, then. Log me as engaged, will you Jay?" he asked as he strode toward the express elevator that would take him straight down to the lobby without having to worry about being stopped on any other floors.

Being onsite, Clint was on-call, and while this was, technically, an Avenger matter, if a call to assemble came in, the others needed to know that Clint might be delayed in responding, or possibly no longer available to answer. It also calmed the paranoid side of him to know there would be an official record of him responding to a walk-in situation, just in case this was a trap.

_"As you wish, Agent Barton."_

Well, at least Jarvis wasn't calling him Buttercup.

****

Like most people Tony Stark hired, Mrs. Arboghast was frighteningly competent, and just plain frightening if you got on her bad side. She ran the reception area for Stark/Avengers Tower, sometimes even manning the desk herself with her staff, and even the highly trained and paid security that Stark also hired to manage the stream of visitors the Tower saw daily, feared Mrs. Arboghast's wrath. If she denied someone's entry, they didn't get even as far as the elevator, much less up to one of the floors. So if she was saying the current visitor deserved the attention of an Avenger, Clint didn't want to dawdle. 

So she's the one he strode up to, instead of trying to determine which of several women standing near the grand circular reception desk in the middle of the Tower's lobby might be his target, greeting her with a cheerful grin and a: "How may I be of service, Mrs. Arboghast?" Since she reminded Clint of one of the few adults from his childhood he remembered fondly, he'd never been intimidated by her, but he also never wanted to disappoint her. 

"Good morning, Clint. Thank you for coming," Mrs. Arboghast responded, returning his smile and giving him a look over the top of her glasses. "Give me just a tick." She finished whatever she'd been doing with one of the receptionists, and let the security guard escort her over and then lift the part of the counter that gave the workers the opening in and out of the station. Clint offered his arm in turn to help steady her, as she led him over to a woman who looked to be of standard college age and dress; a little underdressed, he thought, given the neighborhood and types of businesses nearby, but then Clint was always underdressed for the neighborhood himself.

"Ronni, this is Clint," Mrs. Arboghast said as they approached the young brunette. "He'll walk you back and see what he can do to assist your little problem."

Like that didn't sound ominous at all, but Clint gave Mrs. Arboghast's hand a pat and watched to make sure she made her way back to the desk before he turned back and then extended his hand to Ronni.

"You're Hawkeye," Ronni stuttered, looking a surprised and suddenly uncomfortable.

Clint held back a sigh; of course she'd been hoping for one of the others. Everyone always wanted Cap, or Thor to come to their aid. Most knew that Tony was too busy, and they were generally too scared to ask for Tasha or Bruce's help, but the others still always came out ahead of the guy who ran around with a bow and arrows when the public responded to the stupid who's your favorite Avenger polls. Normally being lesser known or less popular didn't particularly bother Clint; kids liked him well enough, and it wasn't like he'd gotten into the saving the world biz, as either a SHIELD agent or an Avenger, for the recognition. It'd be nice, however, to occasionally not be the last person someone wanted to see.

"In the flesh," he responded to Ronni, giving her a little bow with a showman's flourish.

"Oh, thank god," she came back with, to Clint's complete surprise. 

"I was so afraid Mr. Stark would come down, or even Captain America, but the whole reason I came _here_ was because I didn't want the police to have to get involved. I'd actually been hoping to talk Teddy, who's one of the security guards to take his break with me, but I guess he's out today. But you're perfect. Thank you."

Given the speed in which she was now speaking, Clint decided Ronni had just been nervous, not disappointed. One of the things he prided himself on, however, was the ability to make people feel comfortable.

"Not that I've done anything yet, but you're welcome, Ronni. So what's going on? It was mentioned that you've got a concern with someone at your place of employment?"

The trick was just being a decent person. Listening because their ideas or needs mattered, and if he couldn't help, trying to steer them toward someone who actually could.

Ronni nodded. "I serve drinks over at Zombie & Spirits Tiki Bar a few doors down. I've got a gal who came in right when we first opened. Since then she's been nursing her second drink for over an hour, and I left to see if I could get Teddy's help after she discovered the dart board. She's throwing what I think are knives at it, not our darts. The bartender thinks we should call the cops, but I think she's just killing time while she waits for someone. She seems sad, not angry, but we'll be hitting the lunch crowd soon, and I imagine one of them would either call the cops or confront her and blow things up to where she gets arrested. I was hoping Teddy could talk to her, find out her story and maybe suggest she try using the darts... "

She trailed off at Clint's nod. "I can do that," he offered. "No reason to bother the boys in blue." While Clint had respect for law enforcement as people, he'd lived a life that had included seeing them as threats as much as protectors, and even now he did his best to avoid getting on their radar, even if he basically had a get-out-of-jail free card, with either his SHIELD badge, or his Avengers card. Ronni looked to have the general distrust most college students had of authority, and who knew what the other gal's story was. Something Clint guessed he better go find out.

****

There were few things sadder than a bar at 10:30 in the morning, with its couple of regulars, drink in hand and going through their day in deadened solitude. As a rule Clint didn't frequent bars outside of work. He had too many bad associations with liquor in general to have ever acquired a fondness for alcohol, and he had issues with overpaying for pop or coffee. (Not that he didn't appreciate that other people would pay outrages sums for coffee; he'd invested quite a bit of his SHIELD hazard pay back in the day when Starbucks first started expanded and had their initial public stock offering, which had proven to be a pretty savvy investment over the intervening years.) For work, though, even before he'd become a SHIELD agent, he'd been inside plenty of them and this one looked cool. Clint was surprised, in fact, that Tony hadn't dragged the team over for one of his after battle wind-downs. 

While this one still looked like a Hollywood set designer and one of the chain import stores had had a baby together, it had more of a bayou/goth aspect than a Polynesian one which, given that the name was the _Zombie and Spirits_ Tiki Bar, he should have anticipated. The look felt clever, though, instead of cliché and again, Clint had to wonder how Tony didn't seem to know about this place. Surely it was a favorite hangout for the Stark Industries employees who occupied a third of the Tower's floors, but maybe that was his answer. Nothing quite cooled down a party than the boss walking in.

Tony might be many things, but he'd put together far more complicated things and ideas with far less data, and for being the ideal that all other corporate barons and raiders aspired to, he was still a surprisingly human and compassionate one-percenter.

Someone muttering themselves tended to put the kibosh on a good time too, especially if they were casually tossing some pretty sharp looking – in both edge and cool factor – throwing knives into both of the dart boards hanging in front of a large rectangle of inlaid corks that provided the safety backing for misthrows. The boards were along the back, next to wall farthest away from the bar counter and partitioned off from the rest of the room by two intersecting half walls. It was unlikely that the three bar patrons hadn't noticed her, but rather that they were local New Yorkers and either already numb to their surroundings, or at least jaded to people muttering, if not just to people around them in general. Clint didn't even get a turned head as he came in.

It wasn't that he expected – or wanted – to be recognized, but his own paranoid nature would not have allowed him to sit anywhere in public and not keep track of people coming and going nearby.

The knife thrower did give him a side eye as he headed her direction. He asked Ronni to bring him one more of whatever this woman had been nursing, and the biggest coffee she could pour for him. Then grabbing up a set of the darts stuffed in one of the cubbyholes built into the front half wall, Clint eased behind the woman and moved over toward the throwline taped in front of the board nearest the back corner. He put his first dart into the 20 triple mark, but then purposely hit a wire to cause his second dart to bounce and fall out. On his third, he threw just hard enough so the point stuck with a wobble in the widest part of nineteen before heading over to reclaim all three, shaking his head as he picked up the one on the floor.

"You're pretty good with those knives," he said admiringly as he rose back to his full height, offering truth not just compliment, as she'd nailed three of the smaller, white triangles above and below the bullseye, sinking in all six blades in the time he'd thrown his three darts.

"I like knives," she replied in return with an accent that sounded European, but not exactly.

At least not one recognizable from any country Clint had been too, and he'd travelled through most. A small, regional one then… perhaps, but damned if he knew from which country.

"Few people train with darts anymore, even in Fill – even back home," she mentioned with a nod toward his hand. "You have to be very precise to be effective with them, and most people chose easier weapons, but I am sure that if you keep up your training, you could achieve some kind of mastery," she then added, her voice and expression turning very earnest and telegraphing that she thought nothing of the kind, but that she was still trying to be encouraging and charitable to someone who couldn't even put all of his darts into the board.

She, on the other hand, looked quite skilled with her slender blades. Like she used them for more than target practice. Having had Natasha as his partner for years, Clint knew that just because she was acting harmless didn't mean that she was, or that just because he had a few inches and at least ten years on her, she could easily be contained if things went sideways. Still, he wasn't feeling threatened, and while he could be fooled by someone with skills similar to Natasha's, such as how to lie with her body as well as her eyes and tone, it didn't happen to him often. 

"These?" Clint asked holding up the darts. "No, they're just for fun. It's a game to try and score in each number consecutively and a way to pass some time and get out of my head before I have to return to my paperwork. The challenge is in trying to best how many throws it takes to get to the end. But it's more fun to play against someone instead of just seeing if I can beat myself."

She looked interested but then let her smile twist into something wry and she tisked. "Quentin and Julia have both warned me about getting hustled in bars. If you do this often, then you are likely better than you want me to believe and are just hiding your skill to try and get me to agree to a match where the winner will claim more than just victory." She looked him up and down, boldly as well as speculatively, and then gave him a smile full of teeth. "You are old, but I accept. The winner will determine which position we have intercourse in."

"Whoa, no, that's not what I'm looking for," Clint said instantly, even taking an involuntary step backward out of surprise. Natasha – hell, _Phil_ would be kicking his ass were he here to see Clint caught so flat-footed. 

Of course, now was when Ronni brought them their fresh drinks. At least she looked more confused than disgusted; like she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt instead of automatically assuming the worst of him. She just set them down on the nearest table and headed back into the main part of the room, leaving Clint to continue.

(Thank god for Captain America's reputation as a boy scout – true except for how is was also absolutely false – as, by association, the rest of them were also assumed to be stalwart, noble, and true, or else face being kicked out of the Avengers.)

"Just offering a game, ma'am," he said in all earnestness. "The loser buys the winner another drink, or maybe lunch."

The woman raised her brow as if she was skeptical, but then shrugged. "Your loss, but as my friend has forgotten about me again, I might as well eat if I am not going to kill time waiting by having sex. And if I depart to go see one of your wonderful movies, she will not easily be able to find me. I suppose you want us to use your darts?"

From a calculating person, this openness about sex would be either a pre-emptive strike or a smokescreen, expressly brought up so he was the one uncomfortable and apologizing, and done to keep sex definitely off the table. It certainly was affective. 

Calculating, though, at least in how he generally thought that of someone, just wasn't what Clint was getting from her. He couldn't say she was more innocent, of course, since he was pretty sure that had he agreed to her offer, they'd be having sex after a game or two of darts. Straightforward didn't have the proper nuance he was looking for, and even blunt didn't capture the whole of her. Sex, knives, they were just part of her life, no big deal. And while there were some women and cultures – certainly some _subcultures_ – where casual sex and comfortable violence weren't that big a deal, again Clint couldn't pin those he was familiar with to this woman. 

He was never going to live this encounter down, not that he intended to relate anything other than the barebones of this to Jarvis and maybe Mrs. Arboghast.

Shit! He hoped Ronni wasn't filming this with her phone.

Surreptitiously looking around, Clint didn't notice any phones raised in his direction. In the next moment he then said fuck it to himself, as this wouldn't be the worst thing someone put on the internet with him in a starring role. He was keeping her occupied and if it was all going to go to shit, better he got that underway than letting it draw out until there was a crowd and a lot more potential victims. Should she turn out to be as – guileless! yes, that was the fucking word he'd been looking for! – as she came across, then maybe they could both just have a little fun.

"I could be talked into throwing knives, as long as you were willing to share your blades. But I feel I should be upfront. I am much better with them than I am with darts. My name is Clint," he offered, along with his hand.

Instead of looking alarmed, she looked pleased. And instead of shaking his hand, she flipped three of her knives so that their hilts were presented toward him instead of the blades, again showing significant skill, but doing so as if it were a natural movement to her, instead of being something flashy. It was stupid, but Clint was pleased to see one of the three was the blade with the purple grinding line.

"I'm Fen," she responded. "So how do you want to do this? One to twenty? Twenty to one? Or maybe something a little more interesting?" she suggested as she made a quick pivot and threw all three knives in quick succession, hitting the bullseye and the two white triangles at eleven and six along the same horizontal line. Her placement wasn't quite as precise as Clint would have done were he planning on showing off, but then maybe she was the one trying to hustle him despite him believing everything to the contrary.

"What did you have in mind?" Giving in to one of his smaller demons, he did the same, throwing his knives to create a vertical line, using his own dartboard, again, instead of putting his right next to hers. They weren't his knives, after all, and while he could judge a lot by their weight and composition, along with having watched her throw them first, he'd need to get a proper feel of them before doing circus tricks.

Fen picked up her drink before moving to look closely at his board. She gave a nod in appreciation before she pulled one of them loose with a bit of a struggle, since his had gone in to a greater depth than her own. "I was going to say strip targets, but I suspect it would take hours for either of us to lose any clothes of interest and, even then, we would be missing intentionally just to get on with things. I did not think people here used knives like we do," she said, looking at him again with a more critical eye this time. She saw something different this time, because she suddenly took a breath and then downed her drink like it was a shot. Like she was suddenly screwing up her courage.

"You are not Fillorian. The others would have known if another had come through. And would have said."

She turned back to pull the other two blades out. This time instead of handing them back to Clint, she moved to where she'd placed her first drink, and downed that one in a single gulp, too. Clint stayed where he was, silent and unmoving. Outwardly calm, but still reacquainting himself with what he had on hand. Fortunately, he had mastered the impalements arts, and could use even bar darts effectively, though maybe not before she could get her own throw off. Too bad the only way he would likely be able to prevent her from doing significant damage would be to at least blind if not kill her, but no, his coffee cup would do a better job of stopping her without doing permanent injury.

More fortunately, she just kept muttering, instead of making any sort of move. And hiccupping.

"Unless they decided I do not need to know again. Or maybe they missed you, what with the limits – "

She abruptly turned back his direction, clutching her knives to her. " _Are_ you from Fillory? Are you from _The Library_?"

Now she looked alarmed, though she still hadn't altered her grip on her knives. Sure, she'd only need to drop them as a lot and pluck one out of the air, a trick Clint had no doubt she could manage, but he stayed as non-threatening appearing as he could pull off. No need to encourage her to act.

"I'm from Iowa."

She cocked her head and then shook it, her expression saying she wasn't disbelieving his answer so much as not understanding it.

"I do not know that one," she then admitted it. "Were you able to somehow get through a fountain?"

"I don't know Fillory or how to get through a fountain," he offered in return. He didn't know them specifically, but he was beginning to get an idea of what she might be inferring, and it was not something he was happy his brain coughed up.

"I am not supposed to talk about Fillory," she said, her expression turning sad. "Like it is my fault the fairies are being abused, or that they are the only reliable source of magic right now. It was not me who killed Ember – "

"Killed – wait a minute! Magic?"

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Overall, the idea that there really were aliens out there in the universe was a cool thing. Clint didn't even mind that there might be aliens here on Earth in disguise or just visiting, as long as they weren't going to go all _glorious purpose_ on humanity. Magic, though … magic meant getting inside people's heads and, fuck! She didn't have to actually be able to do it to mess with him. Maybe Fury was right to have cut back on his work with SHIELD and leave him to make a new place with the Avengers. If just the mention that magic might be a real thing put him in this much of a spin, he'd be unreliable in the field. At least unless he happened to have a super soldier, god, hulk, philanthropist, or Tasha there to back him up.

"Oops. Not magic. Nope, no magic here." She giggled through another bout of hiccups, before lifting her glass again and then making a little sound of disappointment when it turned out to be empty. Her face fell once more and again she began speaking to herself. 

"Like that makes me _less_ than them. Because they all can, and I cannot. But _I_ was the one who could see the fairies. Not even god Julia could do that until I showed her. But am I thanked for that or appreciated for my own talents? How can I be, when all of my friends are magicians? Or gods." She looked back over at Clint. "It is so hard to just be the ordinary one."

Oh. Okay. This Clint knew how to handle, because he'd lived it. Still, honestly, though he understood his place now, most of the time, and was just fine with it. Articulating any of that, however …

He approached her slowly and mimed with his hands that he was going to take the blades, which she allowed because not only was she feeling forgotten, depressed, and underappreciated, she was now drunk and was only register that Clint wasn't being threatening. He set the blades down atop the messenger type bag sitting next to her empty drink glasses, making sure Fen saw where he put them before he took one of her hands and led her over to a second table setup for spectators to easily watch the dart matches. 

"No, Fen, you are _extraordinary_ , not ordinary," he told her as he helped her into one of the chairs. Repeating something that Steve had said to him a few months and several missions after Loki, at a point where Clint had been wondering what he was doing thinking he could fight as one of the Avengers. He held up his coffee cup and gesture for two to be brought over to Ronni, before he took a seat across from Fen, and then took her hand again to try and reach her with more than just his words.

"You are the one out there, standing alongside people with all of the advantages. You are the one willing to stand with them with nothing but your hard earned skills and your very unordinary courage. Even if they forget that sometimes, or they don't always show it, your friends know that and can only wonder if they would be as brave, were your situations reversed. You're the one who reminds them to stay human – to stay a part of the world they are trying to do right by, instead of putting themselves above it and thinking they are better than the rest of us. You are a mirror not always easy to look at, but that's why it's so important to be seen. We have a saying here. _That power corrupts and that absolute power corrupts absolutely._ That would be them without you."

"Oh, fuck, Fen. He's right," came from behind Clint, and that was not Ronni. He turned to see who had shown up instead.

The speaker was a stricken-looking brunette who'd paused on the other side of the half wall. She appeared to be a year or two younger than Fen and just as normal and human seeming, for being a magician, if Fen's mutterings had been true and not just drunken ravings.

"Julia," Fen called back and, okay, not a magician, but a god. For just a second as Clint met Julia's eyes, he could see it, could see the same inner awareness and responsibility that Thor generally did his best to keep hidden behind his grand gestures and easy comradery. In the next instant Julia shifted her gaze toward Fen and her tears, and became a distraught friend again, hurting on Fen's behalf and looking guilty for her part in having caused it.

Julia quickly swept in and crouched to gather Fen into her arms, the both of them now crying and talking to one another and, yeah, Clint's job was done. 

He pushed back from the table and slipped away, doing his best not to make noise or otherwise distract them, but it looked like he needn't have bothered. That was okay, too, assuming Julia really was a god. Hard to sneak up on them and at least the ones that he had met – even fucking Loki – did a pretty good job of looking out for their followers. If that's what this was. Which was none of Clint's business. 

Clint intercepted Ronni and took both cups of coffee. "Think they're going to be leaving soon, and even if one or both do come back, it's probably going to be fine. You and the bar are going to be fine. Even if they bring friends. Like me. When I bring back your mugs." 

Even so, Clint made sure to give her enough money to cover the drinks and at least five mugs, before he headed out. Just a normal guy, living in a world a little less normal every day. But that was okay.

\- finis -


End file.
